Images move across the dozen monitors attached to the wall of my office, their glow the only source of light in the room. The wooden shutters on the window haven’t been opened in years, and that’s just the way I like it. With the windows closed off, I can almost pretend I’m some place other than here.
My eyes scan the monitors, looking for any sign that key players in the clan are aware of the war on their doorsteps. It’s those first few minutes and phone calls after the news drops that will reveal most of what we’ll need. Fear and panic are powerful motivators. They cloud good judgment. They make people do revealing things.
I sink backwards in my leather chair and take a sip of coffee. One of the feeds is from a camera pointed at the main square in Casal di Principe. Some neighborhood kids run around the sputtering fountain in the plaza, oblivious to the four bulletproof cars parked in front of the church. The alert I got earlier came from the facial-recognition software I have running on this device when it detected Sal’s arrival.
Another camera shows the church’s interior. It’s packed today for Sunday service, and Sal’s in his usual spot in one of the front pews.
On Sal’s left is his consiglieri, Calisto Lettiero, and on his right is his latest mistress. The two men are listening closely to the priest’s sermon, a man Sal handpicked himself. In Casal, the mafia rules even in the house of God. Nothing escapes its reach.
The chair creaks beneath me as I shift my weight. I miss the setup I have back in my apartment on the outskirts of Naples. Double the monitors, a desk twice the size, and a chair that can comfortably hold my weight without any whining. When De Rossi called me about taking in Martina, I knew I’d be stuck here for longer than normal, and I briefly considered upgrading the equipment, but it felt too much like settling in.
The thought of doing that makes my skin crawl.
It had been a bad idea to buy this place, but I didn’t realize it until it was too late. My mother lived here a long time ago. I thought I’d be honoring her memory. Instead, the first time I opened the door with my new key, I felt an overwhelming sense of intruding on something that wasn’t meant for me.
There were other locations I could have taken Martina, but not on that short of a notice. The castello is the best place for her—secure, hidden, and comfortable. Big enough for both of us to have our own space during the day.
I didn’t think she’d be so taken aback by our sleeping arrangements. After all, it made sense that I’d be close to her when she’s asleep and most vulnerable. But after one night, I’m already starting to doubt the wisdom of putting her so near me.
First, that maddening “I sleep naked” comment. Then discovering her in just a flimsy pajama set in my room this morning—I could see the outline of her nipples clear as day.
And then that fucking bruise…
Just the memory of her smooth skin and the dip of her spine sends a jolt of lust to my dick. How her snooping around my room escalated to her pulling down her tiny shorts in front of me defies any kind of logical explanation.
I drag my palm over my mouth. Whatever the fuck that was can’t happen again. I didn’t need to touch her, but I just couldn’t resist. I know better than to cross any kind of line with her. If she says a word of it to her brother, my plan is screwed. He needs to have full trust in me for all of the pieces to work, and whatever aspirations he has for his sister sure as fuck don’t involve a man like me.
I freeze with my coffee mug halfway to my mouth when I see Calisto reach for his phone. Everyone knows not to call him during the sermon unless it’s truly urgent, which means this might be the phone call I’ve been waiting for.
Calisto presses the device to his ear and listens.
I toggle to the camera located behind the priest so that I can see his reaction.
Slack expression. Wide eyes. His lips spit out a curse word.
This gets Sal’s attention.
I read the don’s lips. “What?” he asks.
Calisto hangs up and whispers something into Sal’s ear.
The two men stand up and leave through the side door in a rush, a trickle of soldiers following after them. The rest of the audience exchanges worried looks. Everyone knows Sal never leaves Sunday service early unless something is really wrong.
Minutes later, the logs are bursting with frantic phone calls. I’m not omnipotent, but all my surveillance systems get me pretty damn close. I’ll let the AI analyze the recordings for keywords, and when it’s done, I’ll send the relevant bits to Ras, Damiano’s right-hand man. He’ll have the unenviable task of listening through it all until he finds something useful for his boss.
My role in this war is pulling on certain strings from behind the scenes. If I announced I’m going to De Rossi’s side now, there would be widespread panic. Probably good for De Rossi, but terrible for me. Even if he wins this war, as soon as it becomes common knowledge that I backed him from the start, I won’t have a job left. I’ll be seen as someone whose loyalty is easily swayed. None of the clan members will trust me again, and when it comes to giving someone priceless valuables to hide away, some trust is fucking necessary.
I have to play this carefully. I want De Rossi to win, but I can’t fuck myself over in the process. If I make it seem like I switched sides only once the key players in the clan aligned themselves with De Rossi, I’ll be seen as a neutral party simply following the lead of others.
The human version of Switzerland.
But sharing information is something I can do quietly, and it’s a resource as valuable as money or ammo. I learned that lesson at fifteen when I managed to hack into encrypted police comms and sell that information to an area capo. The capo had been pressuring me for nearly a week to join his sorry gang of drug pushers in Secondigliano. If I’d kept brushing him off, the conversation would have turned to threats, so the next time he came to me, I handed him something far better than the cash he could have made off my back.
I’m doing the same for Damiano now. Lending him my particular skill set in exchange for freedom.
Or at least my version of it.
A knock sounds on the door. “It’s Polo. Can we talk?”
Tossing back the rest of my coffee, I rise from the chair and step out into the hallway.
Sweat glistens on Polo’s face, and his white T-shirt is marred with streaks of dirt. He must have just come back from the garden with Martina.
Something unpleasant twists inside my gut at the thought of them there together. I didn’t like leaving her outside with him.
Especially after that comment she made about how young he was.
Yes, they aren’t far in age, but so what? It’s not something she should pay any mind to.
I meet Polo’s gaze. “What is it?”
He presses his palm into the wall and puts his weight on it. “What is that girl really doing here?”
My lips tighten into a line. Polo and I have a thread connecting us that few people know about, and he thinks that gives him an excuse to push my boundaries. I let him get away with it more than I should because I know why he is the way he is.
I see much of myself in him.
“I already said everything I’m going to say on the matter.”
“She’s from Spain and she’s here to reconnect with nature?” he mocks. “Since when are we running a wellness retreat?”
I ignore his snark. “Did you give her the tour?”
“Yeah, and I put her to work. She’s still in the garden picking tomatoes.”
When a frown appears on my face, he shows me his palms. “If that’s not reconnecting with nature, what is?”
I massage the back of my neck with my hand. “How did she take it?”
“Grumbled a bit. Then did as she was told.”
“She’s not yours to command.”
Polo sniffs, his eyes swimming with something that rubs me the wrong way. “Whose is she then?”
“No one’s. She’s a fucking guest, Polo. Treat her as such. No more garden duty unless she asks you for it.”
Now, he doesn’t bother trying to hide his scowl. “You’re really not going to tell me what she’s doing here?”
“It’s none of your business,” I grind out.
“Yeah, it never is.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
He volleys his gaze down the hall and then back to me. “Have you spoken to my father in the time you’ve been gone?”
Not. This. Again.
“Don’t call him that,” I bite out.
He whips his head around, anger contorting his features. Polo has a short fuse. He can be charming, but I’ve seen him at his worst, and that charm can turn right off at the flick of a switch.
“I can call him that if I want to.”
“I’ve known you two years. How many more before you realize he’ll never be that for you?” There was a time when I gentled my words, but not now. Not with everything that’s going on.
“The letter—”
“Clearly, he didn’t deem your letter worthy of a response.”
Polo narrows his mistrustful eyes at me. “What if he never got it?”
A prickling feeling appears at the back of my neck. Can he know? No, this is just his desperation coming up with scenarios that would explain why his sperm donor never contacted him.
“Polo, he got it. It’s time for you to move on.”
Placing my hand on his shoulder, I give it a squeeze. His jaw tenses, and then he steps away from me, letting my hand drop.
I watch him retreat.
It’s been two years since he came into my life. Two years since Signora Silvestri, his disabled mother, called me and begged me to take him in. She was dying, and he was her only son. As an only child myself, I knew exactly the lengths good women would go to ensure a decent future for their offspring. I couldn’t say no.
She passed almost as soon as the arrangements were put in place, her soul finally free of burden and ready to let go.
Ever since, I’ve wondered if that’s how my mother felt right before she died, or if the horrors of her past just became too much.
She struggled her entire life for me.
Because of me.
My “father” was useless. Even before I knew the truth about their marriage, I was repulsed by him. On occasion, he’d try to give me a hug when he was intoxicated enough to turn affectionate, but I’d never let him. It didn’t take him long to give up.
Visiting him is something I loathe, but sometimes he has information no one else does. The most he attempts now is a handshake.
Polo never met his father, which has to be the reason why he’s done nothing but romanticize the idea of him. One day, he’ll have to let it go.
That day may be forced on him sooner than later.
I lock the office door behind me and make my way to the stairs. Through the window by the landing, there’s a direct view of the edge of the garden, and I think I see a flash of Martina’s golden hair.
A vise squeezes around my chest at seeing her all alone. At breakfast, she looked a little like a lost puppy when everyone was eating with us, but I don’t blame her for being overwhelmed at being thrown into a new environment and meeting new people.
Allegra and Tommaso worked here even before I bought the property. It’s their home far more than it is mine, even if I own it on paper. Still, I don’t want them to be too much for Martina. Perhaps it’s best if they take some meals separately from time to time. It’ll give me a chance to better understand what’s going on inside her head.
She already seems to be doing better. That hollow look in her eyes is gone. She’s annoyed with me, but I can deal with her anger. While she’s working on getting her phone back, she’s focused on something other than her own thoughts, and anything is better than being stuck in your own head.
She’ll heal one day at a time, and when I return her to De Rossi, he’ll be even more indebted to me.
Before I know it, I’m outside, walking in the direction of the garden.
She’s easy enough to spot kneeling amidst all the green. A full basket of tomatoes sits a few meters away from her, but now she’s picking strawberries and she’s so absorbed in the task she doesn’t even notice my shadow falling over her.
I frown. She needs to learn how to be more aware of her surroundings. I’m going to give her a few more days to think about the self-defense classes before I insist on giving them to her. The thought came to me last night while I was lying in bed. I put myself in her shoes and thought about how I’d feel if I was overpowered by someone the way she was by Lazaro.
Some confidence in her own ability to fight back if something like that ever happened again can’t hurt.
I’m about to say something to get her attention, but then she picks out a fat strawberry and brings it to her lips. I watch her profile as she takes a bite, and blood rushes to my groin.
Fuck.
How many times do I have to remind myself she’s a teenager? I know better than to fantasize about having those lips wrapped around my cock.
And yet I do.
Frequently.
I clear my throat.
She whips around, that plump mouth covered in pink juice before she laps it away with her tongue.
I bite on the inside of my mouth.
“What?” she says, startled. There’s a smudge of dirt on her forehead.
“Everything all right down here?”
She flicks her gaze over me. “No.”
Alarm ring inside my ears. “What’s wrong?”
Clambering to her feet, she presses her small basket of berries into my chest. “Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing.”
“What am I doing?”
“Trying to keep me distracted.”
Oh. A smirk teases at my lips. “Seems like the distractions are working. Polo didn’t ask you to do this bit, did he?”
She looks down at the strawberries. “They’re a night away from being too ripe. It would be wasteful to let them spoil. I’m sure Tommaso has many uses for them.”
“What about you?” I pass the basket back to her. “Your brother told me you also like to cook.”
She shakes her head. “More attempts at distracting me? Trust me, Giorgio, my current interests start and end at finding my phone before I go completely insane out here.”
Somewhere, a rooster emits a loud cry, as if to punctuate her last word.
Insane.
I’ve already gone insane here once. Or at least that’s what it felt like.
My gaze sways to the forest, and I’m immediately transported right back to that night. Hours of digging. Earth, pink worms, and the smell of old, decomposing flesh. The rage I felt when I was once again forced to confront the circumstances that led to my mother’s death was one of the most disturbing things I’ve ever experienced.
I succumbed to the anger. Let it take control of me. And when I finally snapped out of it, I found a trail of destruction.
Growing up, I’ve always knew there was something sick inside of me. That night just served as a reminder that the sickness never left.
Cutting my trip down memory lane short, Martina attempts to shoulder past me, but I reach out and grab her by the forearm.
She looks at my hand, then at my face, her eyes wide and questioning.
Why am I touching her again? Because I can’t seem not to, but I have to give a better reason than that. I look for an excuse and use the first one I find.
“You have dirt on your forehead.”
She blinks and tries to wipe it off with a rough drag of her palm. “Did I get it?”
“No.”
I lift my thumb to her skin.
Her mouth parts slightly. “You don’t have to do that.”
I know I don’t. Gently, I wipe the dirt off. Her breath catches, and when I meet her gaze, a blush appears across her freckled cheeks.
The wide-eyed look she’s giving me makes me think she’s never been this close to another man. It’s possible. De Rossi may have been lenient with her, but there’s no way he’d let some random Spaniard touch his little sister. He knows her value. He knows he’s going to have to make use of her innocence when it comes to forging the alliances that will cement his rule.
Martina is a virgin, that much is sure.
A wicked curiosity ignites inside of me. What would she do if I wrapped my hand around the back of her neck and forced her lips against mine? Would she fight against it? Stand there frozen in surprise?
Or would she turn pliant and let me taste the inside of her mouth?
You’re never going to find out.
I drop my hand and step away. “It’s gone.”
She swallows. “Thanks.”
I leave her and her strawberry-stained lips in that wretched dirt and make my way back to the castello.
